Believers
by Joanne Barcia
Summary: The strangest set of humanoid remains the team has ever seen, a string of government secrets, and an agent who's the exact picture of the friend they lost four years ago. This is where it starts.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yeah, yeah, _another_ "Sweets is alive" story. Sue me. ;) Not sure I'm going to finish this... but so far I like it. I've got a few key scenes set up in my head, but I can't come up with a way to transition between them. Let me know what you think! :)**

* * *

"Look, Scully, if you're resistant because you don't believe, I'll respect that.  
But if you're resistant because of some bureaucratic pressure, they've not only reeled you in. They've already skinned you."

\- Fox Mulder, _The X-Files_ _(Tooms, 1x20)_

* * *

It begins with a body dumped in an open field in the middle of May, rotted and halfway decomposed in the early morning sunlight. The case report that landed on Booth's desk never mentioned it, but he discovers upon arrival that the wheat stalks, now faded and stiff, had all been broken. Bent back in varying direction, they somehow form a clearing, a near-perfect circle around a patch of short grass, where the victim lies in all their decayed, miasmic glory.

He can't drive his van onto the field – for fear of either damaging possible evidence or damaging any crop that could possibly be salvaged – and neither can any of the forensic scientists or federal agents attending. So they walk the distance, holding their equipment close to their chests, swatting away wayward flies as they go. It is not a terribly long journey, and at the end of it, that start right to work.

While the remains look vaguely eaten at, there are no bugs, animals, living things or otherwise within any working radius. So Jack Hodgins begins with the wheat. He finds no discernable cause for crop failure at first glance, no reason for the strange set of their bends, so he simply keeps looking, studying, analyzing. A field journal in hand, he circles around the perimeter, a planet orbiting its center.

Cam Saroyan, having taken her place by the head, looks on with an expression of slight disgust – something so rarely seen in a pathologist so accustomed to performing autopsy after autopsy. The woman has held brain matter in her hands, sliced clean through knotted half-semblances of flesh. Even so, she shares the same expression as Booth, loathe to set sight on the body on the ground, yet unable to look away.

"Oh, God, is this even _human?_ I've never seen anything like that."

Neither, so the wager goes, has anyone else in this clearing. While some bones are peaking through, partly visible, the majority of what lies before them is an off-grey lump of tissue and excess skin. Underneath, just barely seen, is a small smear of white, reflecting the morning light as would some opaque liquid.

As they speak, it is being collected into evidence containers, and as soon as the grunt agent in between them steps aside, Brennan tilts her head to one side and answers, her voice a soft, factual hum. Her tone is far more intrigued than anything else.

"It would appear to be human," she says, gently pressing her gloved fingertips against what looks to be the victim's neck. Or, at least, whatever's left of it. "If you feel it, you'll find the flesh has the same texture and consistency as that of the average human. And that aside, the remains retain the general human skeletal structure, save for a few markers. At this point, I would make a preliminary hypothesis that the victim was severely physically handicapped. As for the color and other substances…"

She runs her index finger over a small patch of grass, now stained white, and glances over to the far end of the clearing, where their resident botanist is still studying the lifeless wheat.

"I trust that Dr. Hodgins will be able to find the chemical cause for those changes."

Cam just nods. Angela, from her spot just behind her, snaps her camera, and from behind the flash, her face shares the same expression as Cam's, as Booth's.

The investigation moves forward slowly, with the team trudging through the case's strangeness as if it were thick mud around their feet. They aren't even halfway through their analysis when a rustling sound starts echoing through the open space and a figure makes its way into view.

This is where it starts.

Time seems to freeze in that very second, along with Booth, Angela, and every Jeffersonian scientist in the vicinity, because appearing in front of them, just feet from Hodgins, is a man roughly six feet tall. His dark hair is cut short, the front standing straight in contrast to his old tight curls, but his eyes, his face – they're unmistakable.

"Sweets?"

It's Hodgins who says it. The man standing just a few arms' lengths away is the picture of a man he once knew – a man they all knew.

But Lance Sweets was killed in 2014. He was murdered. He's dead, long gone, part of the Earth once again. Surely not standing in front of them in 2018, alive and well.

And yet – when have his eyes ever truly lied to him? A man of science, Jack Hodgins trusts his eyes. In front of him, plain and clear, is Lance Sweets. The new man in the clearing, on the other hand – does not seem to agree.

"Excuse me?" he says, his voice a familiar hum in the ear of everyone listening. His eyebrows are knitted in short-tempered confusion, and his head tilts forward, practically demanding an answer. He receives only silence at first; to the people scattered in front of him, the sight of a man long dead is not something to be taken lightly, and the air is therefore charged with a tense mix of apprehension, fear – and a sudden _hope_ that almost surely seems false.

"Lance Sweets," is all Hodgins can stammer out. "It's – it's _you._ "

And he trails right off. The more a person says, after all – the greater chance they have of being wrong. So, as if he could will the sight in front of him to be true, just by refusing to consider the alternative, he goes quiet.

But the man in front of him, slightly irritable and confused still, does not afford him the same false hope.

"Is that a name? You must have the wrong guy."

Hodgins can't find the words to form a response. Thankfully, he doesn't have to. The new man covers that for him, clearing his throat and raising his voice just slightly so as to be heard among the rush of activity in the clearing.

"Who's the agent in charge here?"

Special Agent Seeley Booth, still caught in a trance, can only see a ghost in front of him. Still, he steps right up to that spitting image and stares.

"I am," he starts, but cannot finish with anything related to the case. "But… you're _Sweets."_

"I can assure you, sir, that I am no such person," the new man insists, choosing his words carefully. In the moment of widespread silence that follows, he clears his throat and changes the subject. "Name's Agent Daley. I'm going to have to dismiss your team and ask for all your paperwork on this case. It's been reassigned to me."

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah. I had a page break here for the longest time, intending to continue this chapter, but I just can't find a good enough transition. The situation is just too bizarre, ya know?**

 **Anyway, aside from that - I had a thought awhile ago that the stories I write (at least the ones for Bones) might be able to function as original work. I mean, if I changed the names, switched a few details out, and applied a little extra exposition, do you think they could pass? I love fanfiction, but I just don't want to be stuck as a fanfic writer forever, you feel me?**

 **Thanks for reading! Feedback and even suggestions are not only welcomed - they are very, very necessary on this one! ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Just finished this chapter thirty seconds ago. Did not edit whatsoever. Please watch for Booth's characterization and let me know how it came out - idk, it doesn't really seem right to me, but maybe I've been staring at those paragraphs too long haha. Thanks for reading so far!**

* * *

The FBI has records upon records of Special Agent John Daley, as it does for all its agents, and none of them are anywhere near what Booth expects them to be.

Employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation since April 2015, he's got Bachelor's Degrees in Psychology and Sociology, followed by training at _Quantico,_ for God's sake – and he's only thirty years old. At least, that's what the records say. A few lines below that is his current assignment to a large section of cold cases that Booth doesn't recognize.

He's also a solo agent, apparently. Booth's not quite sure what to think about that.

* * *

Brennan stops him just before he slips into Hacker's office; her face is dark, puzzled – and to only the sharpest eyes, grieving.

"The only explanation that could possibly be applied," she says, not meeting his eyes, "is that Sweets had a twin brother he either knew nothing or said nothing about. And I'm inclined to believe the former; it's actually very common for siblings to be separated in the foster care system. That would account for the near-identical appearance as well as the slight differences: his hair, his entire disposition. It's the only thing that makes sense."

He looks at her and he nods, because no matter which way they spin it, the situation is terrible. Unsettling, because they've got a new agent who apparently, unknowingly lost his brother years ago, and a whole mess of superiors who never said a word about it.

Booth says as much upon entering his superior's office, though not quite as confidently as he'd hoped. Instead of standing up straight and demanding answers like he imagined in his mind's eye, he's walking up to Hacker's desk, paying Daley no mind, and leaning in close to his boss.

He speaks quietly, firmly.

"Look, before you start telling me why this case is being taken from me, I want you to _start_ with why this agent was hired here and why I was never told about it."

"Agent Booth?" God, Hacker looks so damn confused. Why should he? "What do you mean?"

His voice a mix of stuttering incredulity and honest surprise, Booth echoes: "What do I mean? I mean you hired an agent who is the exact _image_ of Dr. Lance Sweets. Remember him? Died in the line four years ago? He and Agent _Daley_ have to be brothers. Bones is convinced they're twins. You never noticed that they look _exactly_ the same?"

Agent Daley, standing idle behind one of the office chairs, is looking at him strangely, with a detached sort of interest. Hacker just looks more confused and, perhaps, slightly concerned.

"Booth," he starts carefully. "I know losing Dr. Sweets was a significant loss for both your team and you, personally. And perhaps there's a slight resemblance – but they really don't. They don't look exactly alike."

Booth takes one disbelieving look at the agent to his right and thinks his boss must be insane. On his way to going blind, losing his memory, _anything_.

"Are you – you've got to be kidding," Booth says, and then turns right to Daley. His voice dangerous, and now with the confidence he originally lacked, he orders: _"Take off your shirt."_

"Excuse me?" Daley says, a mix of shock and complete confusion on his face. Also hidden somewhere between his chin and his hairline is just a strange, curious spark of intrigue.

"You heard me, _agent_. Take off your –"

"Agent Booth!" Hacker interrupts quickly, borderline angrily. "That's nonsense. Now before you say another word, I'd like you to consider the possibility that you're overreacting in this matter. Because on the off-chance that Dr. Sweets's death is affecting your work four years after the fact, the only option I'll have is to send you straight to another psychologist for review. And based on past experience – I know that's not preferable."

He finishes, and in the stretch of silence that follows, there's only one thought in Booth's mind: Hacker's wrong. And something's not right. He says as much, hopefully without warranting the loss of his gun.

His eyes are cast down at the corner of the desk, away from Hacker and away from Daley, and his voice is quiet as he says it: "Fine. There's just a… gut feeling. This doesn't feel right."

Hacker offers only a muted sigh at that.

"Well, regardless of how it feels," he says, "You were called in to discuss the reassignment of the current case. Although you've protested it, the fact of it is that Agent Daley is more suited to a case of this nature."

A pause.

"And what nature is that, sir?"

Hacker looks up from a file, over the edges of his reading glasses and continues, answering in passing, "Extraordinary circumstance and events that can't seem to be reasonably explained. The details of the case require his involvement, and there's even a file in his possession about a similar case. However, Agent Daley –"

The man tilts his chin up in acknowledgment as Hacker continues, "Since you've been working alone up until this point, I think having you and Agent Booth work together on this case is both a reasonable and an efficient compromise. Are you willing to do that?"

And Daley takes a long look at the older agent, surveys his posture, his disposition, his everything. His answer is a small, conceding sigh.

"Fine. Provided he cooperates."

A nod. "And you, Agent Booth?"

Booth turns his head to meet the other agent's eyes – and finds them the same shade of brown he had been so used to seeing years ago. The small voice in the back of his head, the sinking feeling in his gut, they won't leave him alone. And he can see no better solution.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll work with him."

* * *

"So this Sweets guy," Daley starts once they reach Booth's office. The walk there was swift, their pace perfectly matched; and for those two minutes, it was as if it was 2014 again. Well – the first part of it, anyway. "You think he's my brother? That why your team all but had a stroke when they saw me?"

Leaning up against the edge of his desk, Booth nods.

"I think you're twins. You _do_ look exactly the same."

Daley looks skeptical. "That's not what Hacker thinks."

"Hacker's out of his mind if he doesn't see it. Look, I'll even pull up his file."

The FBI also has records upon records on Dr. Lance Sweets, as it does for all its deceased agents. They're easily accessible, in Booth's case. Just a few screens and passwords away.

He pulls it up and scans the first page; but Daley watches closely as his face falls into customary confusion. Something's wrong.

"That's not… no," Booth says, scrolling through. "That's not right."

The name is right. The length of the employment and date of his death are right. But those are the only things that are; everything beneath those lines, from his birthday to his specific doctoral degrees, is blatantly _wrong_.

And the ID picture in the lower corner?

Booth's got no idea who it is, but it sure as hell isn't Lance Sweets. The man in the photo is the polar opposite – a shorter man with broader shoulders, and blond hair cropped to his head. His face isn't one Booth has ever seen.

"That's not him. It's his file, but that's not him."

"How could it not be him?" Daley's voice doesn't quite echo the confusion. It's honest curiosity. "You think someone changed it or something?"

And the senior agent is silent for a few moments. But at the end of that stretch, he looks up at Daley, studies him again.

(But Booth _watched_ Sweets die. This isn't him. Based on his attitude alone, it can't be.)

"I don't know," he admits. But he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and starts going through it. "Someone had to have… because he didn't…. He didn't look like that. Look."

He holds up a digital picture of Lance Sweets, leaning against a kitchen table in the same way Booth was leaning against his desk, holding a baby girl with his right arm. There's a woman just next to him, and they're both flashing wide smiles at the camera. Daley just looks on with muted fascination.

"That's Sweets and his girlfriend. He's holding my daughter."

And Daley just nods. "He kinda looks like me. I guess I can see it."

"You _guess,"_ Booth practically scoffs, shoving his phone back in his pocket. "Yeah, sure. I don't know what the hell happened to his file… but I'm going to find out."

Another nod.

"Feel free to make that your priority, Agent Booth," Daley says. "Honestly, as far as our case goes – I deal with cases like these all the time. I know what to look for and what questions to ask. Feel free to help, but I can honestly take it from here."

Seeley Booth – in true form – will have none of that.

"Is that what you consider working together on a case? Nope. I'm with you on this, whether you like it or not. And what do you mean, cases like these? What's your exact assignment anyway?"

The younger agent sighs with sudden irritation and runs a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he says, and he takes a breath. "Have you ever heard of the x-files, Agent Booth?"

"Oh. Yeah, I've heard of them. So you're one of those nuts? A UFO chaser or whatever?"

"I resent that," Daley just deadpans, crossing over to the desk and starting to fiddle with a bobble-head on the edge. Almost immediately, Booth grabs it from his hands. "Regardless of the paranormal evidence that pops up – and it's all substantial – I've got one of the highest success rates in all those cold cases. And you'd be surprised by the things I've seen."

Booth lets out a quick, vaguely condescending laugh. "Let me guess: you've been abducted by aliens, haven't you?"

Rolling his eyes, he turns away and starts making his way towards the door. "Oh, you have no idea what's out there, Booth. But who knows – maybe once this case is finished, you'll be thinking like me in no time."

He starts out the door, but turns his head in the last second.

"The physical evidence should be arriving at the Jeffersonian lab soon. I'll meet you there in an hour."

And he's out of the room before Booth can even answer.

* * *

 **A/N: Some freaky shit! My thoughts are kind of scattered here, and I'm trying to foreshadow without giving anything away - but I hope this is making sense. Ah, anyway, I'm out. Reviews would be lovely! Catch you guys later!  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This story is way on the back-burner for me, but I love it. I especially loved this chapter, because I got to work on characterizing Daley. Let me know what you think!**

 **Also, it's come to my attention that there was an episode of Bones titled "The X in the File." I'm laughing about it. Whatever, enjoy the chapter! Leave some reviews!**

* * *

"Before you start examining the remains, you should know," he starts the second he appears by the platform, "that everything you are about to find is already detailed in another file."

A thick folder in hand, Daley makes his way up the steps with Booth in tow. As the younger man's temporary ID lets them through, the heads of each Jeffersonian team member snap up and find his familiar face; and then they turn to Booth. Hopeful.

The senior agent just shakes his head, and this does not go unnoticed.

"Once again, I'm John. Agent John Daley. Not that other guy."

"Lance Sweets," Brennan fills in, hurt evident in her voice. "His name was Lance Sweets."

And at that, Daley just nods his head dismissively and offers a quick _yeah._ Him.

"Anyway," the agent goes on, ignoring the obvious curiosity in the people around him. "Like I said. Everything already known about this case is already recorded."

"So show us the file," Hodgins says, his tone flat, completely devoid of any fondness. The man standing opposite him, on the other side of the strange set of remains on the slab, may be the spitting image of the friend they lost four years ago – but that's really all they have in common. Booth even confirmed it.

"Well, that's the problem, Dr. Hodgins," Daley starts, but is interrupted by the entomologist once more.

"You remember my name?" he asks, and is about to continue – is about to point out that he can so easily forget the name of the man who must have been his own brother – but is cut off with a reason.

Daley answers with a curt nod, saying, "I don't need to. It's written on your lab jacket, in case you weren't aware."

The room goes quiet at that, but the tension continues to run high. Each of them can feel it.

"I should remind you that if your team cannot focus on the case at hand, Agent Booth, I'm sure Hacker will have no problem taking you off of it. As I was saying…"

He steps over to a nearby counter and makes sure it's dry before placing his folder down and opening it.

"I don't have that file, and that's exactly where the problem is. The file I do have…" he holds a page up momentarily, as proof, and continues, "is an overview of the preliminary case notes of similar events that happened five years ago. In 2013, a set of remains just like these – humanoid in structure, yet strange and seemingly unidentifiable – was found on the edge of some Maryland farmland. It was actively investigated for nearly seven months before it was halted suddenly by the order of their then-Congresswoman. You might recognize her now as _Senator_ Anne Marsh-Sennick."

"Let me guess, alien boy," Booth interjects with a sigh, stepping forward to glance at the file. He reads for just a moment before looking back at Daley, a near-mocking expression on his face. "You think this is just one big government conspiracy, right?"

And the alien boy shrugs.

"All I'm saying is that the case was pulled without any indication that it was going cold. And why on earth would a Congresswoman get personally involved unless the investigators found something she wanted to keep hidden?"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Booth says, his expression suddenly sober. "As far as government conspiracy goes – we've been there, done that. In case nobody told you, that's how your own brother was killed. So you might want to watch it with that."

There's a moment's pause, and the scientists on the platform are forced to look away; it's a memory they'd all rather not revisit.

Booth goes on, "And as far as this goes, cases get closed all the time, no matter how long they've been open. And since all these labs are funded by tax dollars, I'd say it makes perfect sense for her to get involved. It's her _job_."

Daley's hands find their way to his pockets, and he leans against the nearest stable counter as he dips his head in a fluid nod.

"Okay, sure. I'll concede. But what's more is that the investigation's findings were all confiscated, sent directly to Washington under her name. The files that contain everything known about these remains are under strict lock and key. Mind explaining that to me?"

"Well, did you put in a formal request?" Booth asks, a half-smirk edging up his mouth. "Those can take days to be processed."

"I'm well aware, thank you. And I did – I faxed request forms twice in the five hours this case has been open. Once in my name, and once in Hacker's; both were denied outright within half an hour."

Booth, as it seems, has nothing to say to that.

"I don't like secrets, Agent Booth," Daley says, closing his folder. "Never been a fan. I'm inclined to think that is a distaste we both share, and if there's one place secrets don't belong, it's here."

He pauses.

"My first priority is finding the truth."

After another short stretch of silence, a voice speaks up.

"I can respect that, Agent Daley," Brennan says, straightening up and meeting his eye. She is purely objective. "Regardless of whether _conspiracy_ is an appropriate word to apply to the circumstances – something is obstructing our path to the truth. As it is now our case, it is our responsibility to remove that obstruction."

And to that, the agent offers a half-smile and a full nod.

"I like her," is all he says at first, but he quickly returns to business. "Anyway… the first thing we need to do is obtain those files. In the meantime, Dr. Saroyan, I'd have your team begin investigating as usual, so we have something to corroborate and compare with whatever we dig up. If you could, though, keep any digital documents offline. Now, as far as getting the files we need, what we're going to do –"

Booth clears his throat expectantly at that, and Daley glances over sidelong to see the older agent's eyebrows shoot up – a wordless sort of challenge.

Daley sighs. "What I _suggest…_ is that we arrange to confront Ms. Marsh-Sennick directly. Confronted, as a general rule, people have a much more difficult time explaining things away. And if we can convince her somehow to allow us access –"

"Sure, sure, just confront her. Find her office, wherever it is, and walk right in. I'm sure after a little talk, she'll just hand them over."

"If you would let me _finish,"_ Daley turns his head and narrows his eyes just slightly in Booth's direction. He sighs, and with his composure regained, he lifts a hand to point at the woman on the other side of the slab with a camera hanging from the strap around her neck. "You. You're not a scientist, correct?"

"What, you couldn't be bothered to read my name off my jacket?" she asks, setting her jaw.

The agent runs a hand through his hair and says, "I could, certainly. But the lapel is covering it, Ms.…?

"Montenegro. Angela. And I'm not a scientist, _correct."_

A nod.

"Got it. Since I can practically guarantee that a facial reconstruction will not yield much information, I would ask you to help me get to the senator."

She knits her eyebrows for a moment, confused. "How?"

"You wouldn't need to do much. But long story short, there is a political gala in Baltimore two days from now; Marsh-Sennick is fully expected to be there. We pose as donors, I pull the senator aside, and if all goes well – those files will be on my desk by Monday morning."

"And if all does not go well?"

He pauses for a moment.

"Then we'd better work quickly."

Booth chimes in the second he finishes his word: "Hey, not a chance, Daley. Not only is that the worst plan I've ever heard, you're dragging a squint into it. If you're set on wasting your time there, _I'll_ go with you."

"A squint?" Daley considers the phrase, but, deciding it doesn't much matter, moves on. "Whatever. If you have any better plan, Agent Booth, I'll gladly hear it, but in the absence of one, this looks like our best option. And while I have no problem with going bi for the evening, your name isn't exactly a small one. Meanwhile, working from the Bureau's basement means that no one knows who the hell I am. And at least with Ms. Montenegro we stand half a chance at being inconspicuous."

"Yeah, no way, buddy," Hodgins says as soon as he can get a word in, stepping around the slab and right up to the younger agent. "That's my wife you're talking about, and if you think I'm about to let you drag her into something that could get her –"

"It's a political event, not a firefight. Regardless, she's perfectly safe with me. And though the concern is natural – and appreciated, I'm sure, Dr. Hodgins – it's not your decision. This is our best shot at finding the truth right now, but if you'd prefer not to do it, Ms. Montenegro, I certainly won't force you."

He turns to her and asks the question.

"What do you say?"


End file.
